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Family
by VIVIAN ZHI (Canada)
December 2020
My words can be a sense of comfort, a feeling of being understood, a thought, an awakening.
by ANNIE KIRKPATRICK (United States)
December 2020
Rice piled on my plate like a cold white ant bed. Mom adjusted her glasses again.
by ANYA WILSON (Ireland)
December 2020
When I arrive home, there are men outside our cottage. But these are not my dada's friends.
by TULA SINGER (Cuba)
August 2020
My mother came into the kitchen with a blank face. "We're leaving," she said. "We're going to move in with Ahmad in New York."
by OTTAVIA PALUCH (Canada)
August 2020
People evaporate.
But not as quickly as water.
by LEE GAINES (United States)
August 2020
you have learned there is both good and bad about where you live.
you have learned the stubbornest people on the planet are Southern.
by EVE DONALDSON (United Kingdom)
April 2020
"But Dad, a dog is the animal for me -
I'll take him for walks and I'll make him his tea."
by AMALIA COSTA (United Kingdom)
April 2020
We act like we're pleasantly thrust together instead of a family bound by grief and love.
by MAY ZHENG (United States)
December 2019
Air sticks to my skin,
like honey. mosquitos circle my ankles and wrists
by SIRIN JITKLONGSUB (Thailand)
December 2019
These are the scents I will take with me when I leave this house.